


We8works

by KeyholeCat



Category: Homestuck
Genre: AU, Crack Pairing, F/F, Humanstuck, Hurt/Comfort, spidernerds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-07
Updated: 2012-07-02
Packaged: 2017-11-07 04:26:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/426896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KeyholeCat/pseuds/KeyholeCat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Aranea bothers Vriska to the edge of death and Vriska is bad at revenge........ and not necessarily in that order.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Examin8tion of What it Means to 8e Alone

Your roommate huffs when you slam the door shut and unceremoniously flop onto your stiff bed. She doesn’t even glance up from whatever boring magazine she was reading. She’s used to this, really, though it doesn’t stop the endless condescending gestures and her curt attitude towards you. Like you even give a fuck.

You have a staggering amount of work to do for a project you’ve been putting off for far too long. Why you decided to study quantum physics is a mystery even to you. What would you even use it for? Making doomsday devices? That’s the only interesting and worthwhile application you can imagine.

“I spoke to Kanaya this morning. Seeing as you have been ignoring her messages to you, she told me to remind you to work on your homework instead of playing League of Legends or whatever it is you do,” says Rose, again keeping her gaze glued to the page.

Now it’s your turn to scoff. “Well you can tell the fussbucket that I’ll do whatever the hell I want!” You stretch on your bed, arching your back and mumbling.

“Noted. I will make certain that your sentiments are understood.” You’re pretty sure you could _hear_ the eye-roll from your position.

You roll onto your stomach and hide your face under your folded arms. You do your work on your own time, without anyone else’s prompting. You’re a busy girl. Irons in the fire, all that. But… you guess it wouldn’t hurt to take a walk and look for a classmate to scam into helping you. You just got back from classes, but you hadn’t known that Rose would be lurking, and you aren’t exactly ecstatic at the thought of spending the rest of the afternoon with her.

Minutes later you’re out stalking the brick paths between buildings, not really paying attention to anything, letting your mind wander. You don’t think about anything in particular; you’ve got an upcoming LARPing mission with Terezi that you need to plan for, sure, but your thoughts on that are about as fleeting as your thoughts on the weather (it’s cloudy and cool, for the record). You’re vaguely aware that you’re forcing people to navigate around you, even making them take a few steps through the mud from yesterday’s rain, as you are walking right in the middle of the narrow path, but somehow it is a small comfort that you were a part of their day, even if you only served as an inconvenience.

It isn’t until you hear a loud _bang_ that you really snap back to reality. You jump, ready to fight or fly, or whatever the psychological term is (god you need to not ever talk to Rose again), until you see that it is only a construction crew putting in a new window in the arts center. You assume that the old one was broken by some drunken asshole. It might have even been you.

You take this opportunity to survey your surroundings. Obviously you’re by the arts center now, but you’re not far from the library and the concert hall, either. There’s also a café/convenience store right across the street, which reminds you that you’re damn hungry. Your fingers dive into your pockets to search for cash and you pull out a few bucks. Enough for a sandwich, you guess.

You enter the establishment, purchase your grub, and take a seat at a wobbly table. It doesn’t seem to be one of the more visited stops, despite being in a hot zone in terms of distance to popular buildings, but then again, it is in pretty poor condition compared to the coffee shop that is literally right down the lane. Half of the chairs have some part of them broken, and the student managing the register looks like he had a rough night—one of those lightweights who should just stay away from booze entirely. The only other person sitting amongst the tables is some girl hunched over a book. You quickly grow bored, though you have no intention of leaving just yet, so you pull out your iPod and pop the buds into your ears. You choke down the last of your unbelievably shitty sandwich, wishing you had the funds for some unbelievably shitty coffee or something to wash it down, and then rest your head on the table, arms folded around your face like the walls of a fortress.

You actually start to drift off right there. Your mind takes you to a dock surrounded by pinkish waters. You’re walking along the pier and gazing into the shallow water, where you can see the sunlight glinting off the faces of what you guess to be gold coins and jewels. You don’t go for it, though; you barely even acknowledge them. Soon you reach the edge of the dock and stand right at the edge. The water is much deeper here, becoming a deep fuchsia. It looks like Kool-Aid, you think. But then you lean too far and find yourself descending, falling in slow-motion towards the water, as you are apt to do in dreams.

You jerk awake as you feel a hand on your shoulder. “Oh, I’m sorry!” a voice apologizes. You turn to see the girl who’d been reading standing by your side. You think you feel yourself flush in embarrassment at your display of alarm, but then mask it with annoyance. Before you have a chance to protest, though, she continues. “I was only wondering if you would lower the volume of your music player.” She has an accent of some sort—perhaps Irish or Scottish—that makes her draw out certain words strangely and gives a trill to her R’s. She continues, “I am finding it a little more difficult to read with there being tinny tunes playing a mere few feet away.” She nods toward the iPod in your hand. “If it’s not too much trouble,” she adds, as if turning the volume down is such a hassle.

You give her a good look, hoping your staring will put her off and make her go away. She has brunette hair, the same color as yours, which doesn’t quite reach her shoulders, and is wearing these glasses that just _screamed_ librarian. No wonder she’d been nose-deep in a book. You glance down at her nametag, which you guess she is wearing because she is on break or something. It reads “Aranea.”

 _Aranea._ Now, that is a name you know. You think. Maybe. It rings a bell, but you can’t really recall why. You definitely don’t recognize this girl. Or… not exactly. Now that you look at her, she looks a _lot_ like you. Minus the dorky accessories, of course. You wonder if she notices the same thing about you. Doubtful, since your face is half-ensconced in a mane of tangled locks.

“Is there a problem?” You nearly forgot what she’d asked.

“No,” you state shortly, determined to redeem yourself for your generally awkward behavior. “I have to go.” You make to leave, snatching up the tray your food was on and tossing it with the rest of the used ones.

“Oh, you don’t have to—“ But you are already gone.

Outside, you light up a cigarette and throw your hood up in an attempt to shield yourself from the light drizzle that is just beginning.

Rose is gone when you return. Just as well, because you know that your favorite amateur writer (and by that you mean the only writer you actually like) has updated their latest story. Every Friday a new chapter is added, and last week’s update left things at a major cliffhanger. But then again, the author always does that.

The Trials and Victories of Marquise Spinneret Mindfang

Chapter 37

Redglare hardly looked surprised that I was there. For a moment I wondered whether I was 8eing too quiet, for it is not as though she had eyes with which to see me. 8ut only a fool would underestimate the young neophyte. Concealed within the slim wooden cane held 8y her gloved hand was a strong 8lade, and I knew from personal experience that she knew how to use it. 

“Marquise,” she hailed tersely. I couldn’t help 8ut smile. “I thought I was the one looking for you, not the other way around.”

I didn’t answer. To do so would 8e to spoil it all. I approached her slowly (she was standing 8efore her desk, as if she’d 8een expecting me) and I was curious to see how close I could get 8efore either she yielded or the tension snapped.

It just so happened that I could very, very extremely close.

This chapter turns out to be particularly steamy. You catch yourself grinning like an idiot, after which you glance around as if the not-soundproof-at-all walls are also transparent.

You don’t know why the author puts 8’s where b’s should be, but you think it’s actually pretty cool. You yourself have adopted this ha8it in a sort of subtle homage. Anyone who catches the reference gets your respect. Everyone else, well, they can fuck off because it’s not even like your little “quirk” is as bad as those of some of your friends.

Soon after you finish the chapter (Orphaner Dualscar caught Mindfang and Redglare in the act, ending it in a cliffhanger _again_ , god fucking damnit) Terezi begins to pester you. You spend the rest of the evening doing nothing with any semblance of productivity, and you definitely don’t get started on your extremely important lab report.

-x-x-

It’s high noon when you relent to Kanaya’s meddling and promise to start doing a little research. “And Not Only On The Internet,” she types. Damn her for making you do things. You like Kanaya, and consider her one of your only actual friends, but much of the time she is far too meddlesome.

And then you’re at the library door, swiping your student ID at the front desk and approaching the nearest computer. You use the digital catalog to find a selection of documents relevant to your assignment, pick them out of the shelves, and search for a place to settle.

And who should be sitting at a table, eyes burning into a thick novel, but the girl from the café. What a nerd. Luckily, you don’t catch her attention with all your rummaging around the bookshelves, nor do you care to, frankly. However, there don’t seem to be any empty tables that aren’t within her range of sight, so the threat of her actually seeing you is dangerously high. Not that it really matters, anyway, but life’s a little less boring when you add a little unnecessary drama. You just choose a table and park yourself at a chair, cracking open a textbook and attempting to drain something useful from the dull monochrome images and text.

And then, all of a sudden, a wild dork appears.

“Hello!” At this you exhale sharply, because standing at the opposite side of the table is Aranea, sans nametag. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to intrude,” she says, apparently picking up on your annoyance. “It’s just that, well, I wanted to make sure you were okay after you rushed off yesterday. You seemed pretty distracted when you left the shop. If I put you off somehow, I didn’t mean to!”

Her? Put you off? The thought was laughable. “Yeah, uh, no, it wasn’t you. We’re totally square.” You turn your gaze back to your textbook, hoping she will get the message to buzz off.

She doesn’t. “Oh, good. I often go there for a quiet place to relax and read, so I thought perhaps that you had gone there to do the same until I disturbed you. I have a tendency to get in other folk’s business when they least want me too. Which… I guess I am doing now!” she chuckles. “So I will go mind my own beeswax, as they say.” She makes as if to return to her place, but then hesitates. “You know, you look very familiar to me. Have we met in the past?” You just shrug. She presses her lips together, unsatisfied. “I’m Aranea,” she says, holding out her hand. You take it halfheartedly. “Vriska,” you say.

At this, her eyebrows jump in surprise. “Vriska?” She sounds incredulous.

“Yeah, that’s what I said,” you say slowly. You wonder if she is going to start analyzing your name with her wicked book smarts.

To your chagrin, she sits in the chair across from you, leaning towards you. “You don’t remember me,” she says, as if to clarify.

“No… am I supposed to?”

If she is disappointed, she only shows it for a fraction of a second before asking, “Do you know the Egberts?”

Now it is your turn to be skeptical. “The Egberts…”

“You know, John and Jane? And Mr. Egbert? Wind Street?”

“Oh my god…” You recall a tire swing; a pogo ride; piles of crisp, bright orange leaves. Two dark-haired kids and a dude with a big nose. A girl your age with brown hair and blue eyes. “Oh, shit!” you exclaim, prompting several _shhhhhhhh_ s in your direction. “You mean the foster home!” You lean back in your chair and cover your brow with your hand in a gesture of disbelief. Aranea beamed from behind her glasses. “Aranea! Wow, I compleeeeeeeetely forgot!” The two of you laugh, if a bit awkwardly.

“Yes! I knew I recognized you.” She sits back in her chair. “So what have you been up to? You look terrible!”

“Oh, fuck you!” you say instinctively. She looks a bit taken aback. You realize what a dickish move that was, but you try to play it off cool. You really only succeed in making yourself look like a bigger bitch. “I’ve been trying to research for a paper, actually,” you say, eyes flicking to the page before you.

“Oh… right. My mistake! I should have waited until you… well, I should probably go, then. I wouldn’t want to distract you from your work.” She rises from her seat.

“No, it’s okay, I wasn’t going to get much done anyway.”

“No, really, I actually have to get to work. The boss is already sour over me supposedly slacking.” Jeez, she even reads when she should be working, you think. “Maybe I will see you around!” She starts to leave. You wonder if she actually hopes to see you again after you offended her sensitivities with your sailor’s tongue. But then she turns. “Oh! Do you have an account on Pesterchum, perhaps? I don’t use it often, but that’s because my friends list is a little… small.”

“Oh, yeah, sure.” She smiles in response and pulls out some light blue Post-It notes, scribbling something down on the pad. She then hands you the sticky notes you do the same, exchanging your handle for hers. You stuff it in your pocket. As if you need another name to add to the list. She’s probably too busy reading all the time, anyway.

After you leave you find it no easier to focus. You are distracted by previously suppressed memories flooding through your mind. The Egbert family was certainly one of the better families you stayed with. You were moved around from family to family a lot depending on each home’s situation or because of your own tendency to get into trouble, which, of course, is never really your fault. But you don’t think about that. It’s better to forget.

You give up pretty quickly on actually getting any work done. This shit can wait.

-x-x-

It isn’t until several hours later that you are contacted by Aranea. You wonder whether she opened up her laptop as soon as she got off work before you decide that you’re just flattering yourself. You’d been nothing but straight-up rude to her so far, so she’s probably just run out of inflated tomes to skim.

\-- affableGamblignant [AG] started pestering arachnidsGrip [AG] at 8:08p. --  
AG: Hello Vriska! I hope I typed in your chumhandle correctly.

You start to type a reply, but then freeze when you read her chumhandle. AffableGamblignant… that is the name that your favorite author goes by. You guess that Aranea must be a big fan. You wonder whether she adopts the same quirk as the real AG as well.

AG: ::::)   
AG: I will take that as a yes! ::::)   
AG: Yep!   
AG: Oh man, this is confusing, we are 8oth using the same color and chumnitials and everything.   
AG: Hmmmm you’re right, that is rather confusing.   
AG: There we are! I don’t mind 8eing orange. It isn’t as easy on the eyes as 8lue, 8ut we all have to make sacrifices for the good of 8lossoming friendships.   
AG: Is that what you’re up to? Planting friendship seeds? You know I have allergies, riiiiiiiight?   
AG: Well, whether or not I am “up to” anything, that is what I like to think is happening! Don’t you?   
AG: Um, sure? Why the hell not. I can always add a nerd to my roster of “”””””””friends.””””” ”””   
AG: That is certainly a large quantity of quotation marks that you employed.   
AG: Also, low 8low!   
AG: Hahahahahahahaha.   
AG: 8ut seriously, what’s up with the chumhandle?   
AG: Pardon?   
AG: Are you a fan of the real AG or something?   
AG: Oh. Well. I suppose you could say that? If 8y fan you mean I am one who enjoys her work, then yes.   
AG: Judging by your letter su8stitutions, I’d wager that you are a fan of this author’s work, correct?   
AG: Yeah, it’s not 8ad! Marquise Spinneret Mindfang is the gr8est.   
AG: I agree. 8ut I’m afraid that you’re mistaken in assuming that I adopted this chumhandle in a gesture of admi ration for another author.   
AG: ::::?   
AG: Let me put it simply:   
AG: I am affableGam8lignant. It is me.   
AG: ::::O   
AG: Also I type with 8’s 8ecause the keystroke that it replaces has 8een pillaged from my laptop 8y some evildoer. I suspect vandals. I have a tendency to 8e la8eled, as you said, a “nerd” and am thus preyed upon 8y those higher on the coolness spectrum than me. 8ut you get used to it.   
AG: ........Welp.   
AG: Welp?   
AG: I can’t tell if this statement is in surprise or disappointment or pity. Or awe? If I discovered that a random stranger that I met was actually a person whose work I admired, I would 8e a little dum8founded as well.   
AG: Actually, I would pro8a8ly start 8a88ling like a silly little lass a8out how much I adored their work.   
AG: Kind of like you are 8a88ling now?   
AG: ........Yes.   
AG: Hahahaha! Well, considering that you are a preeeeeeeetty decent storyteller, I will let it slide!   
AG: W8 a second, that means you write porn! Weeeeeeeeirdoooooooo.   
AG: >::::/   
AG: I’ll have you know that anything that I write, sensual or otherwise, serves only to advance and develop the plot and characters and contri8ute to the piece as a whole.   
AG: It is not purely self-indulgent smut.   
AG: Suuuuuuuure. :::;)   
AG: Urg, let’s talk a8out something else. How did your studying go?   
AG: It would have gone 8etter if someone hadn’t stuck their nose into my 8usiness! I 8arely got anything done. ::::I   
AG: I only interrupted you for a moment! You had plenty of time after my departure, didn’t you?   
AG: Yeah, well, I have a hard time focusing on 8oring school shit, especially after you opened a fresh nostalgia wound all over my face.   
AG: I think you mixed some metaphors there, 8ut I’m not even sure which metaphors you mixed.   
AG: Anyway, have you thought of working with a tutor? I know one of the technology centers offers free tutoring sessions.   
AG: Fuck no. I’m not wasting my time with some random loser 8eing forced to schoolfeed idiots.   
AG: I’m pretty sure you just made up the word “schoolfeed” as well.   
AG: What if I were to help you?   
AG: Are you a physics professor???????? I don’t think so!   
AG: No, of course I’m not, 8ut I could keep you on track and may8e even show you some tricks a8out finding quality sources, or something of the sort. I’m a pretty good student so I think I could teach you a thing or two!   
AG: I certainly wouldn’t 8e forced to 8e there, unlike persons mentioned previously. In fact, I’d 8e happy to help; I need a change of pace, and I fear that the li8rary is running out of novels I haven’t read. ::::)   
AG: Eh.   
AG: I’m going to 8other you whether you accept my proposal or not.   
AG: Okay fiiiiiiiine.   
AG: O8viously I have enchanted you with my natural charm and good looks, so it is only merciful that I grace you with my presence.   
AG: I think you should know that I rolled my eyes a8out 8 times just then.   
AG: Good! You probably need to after doing nothing 8ut staring at pages all the time.   
AG: Touché!   
AG: So, what time shall we meet tomorrow?   
AG: Tomorrow? Maaaaaaaan I don’t know!   
AG: What a8out at, say, one o’ clock?   
AG: In fact, why don’t we have lunch together? It would seem that we have a lot of catching up to do!   
AG: I think you’re pushing your luck!   
AG: I’ll 8uy. ::::)   
AG: Deal.   
AG: Good! I will see you tomorrow! Don’t forget to 8ring your 8ooks. ::::)   
AG: Hahahaha, riiiiiiiight. See you.   
\-- arachnidsGrip [AG] ceased trolling affableGamblignant [AG] at 8:17p.--

-x-x-

You hadn’t had night terrors in a while. You thought you’d grown out of them.

You’re on the same dock surrounded by the same pink water that you’d dreamt about when you dozed off at the café. The crests are just as small as they had been before, the treasure just as abundant. You sit at the edge of the pier for a little while, finding the sound of the ocean as soothing as it is enticing. You wish you could see the sea in real life, just once. Even though you don’t live that far from the ocean, none of your foster parents had ever bothered. Or maybe you just never told them you wanted to go. You’ll have to make the trip to Seattle one of these days, or maybe even to Vancouver.

You push aside these thoughts and wander along the deck. The jewels and stones submerged in the shallow water are very colorful; there are emeralds, garnets, rubies, even what you think may be diamonds. You fixate on one particular gem—a sapphire—and stoop down to reach for it, leaning over the edge of the deck.

Suddenly your face is shoved beneath the surface of the water. You gasp, inhaling water and causing you to gag on the taste. Your lungs clench in protest and scream for precious air while salt stings your eyes and burns your nose. You try to lift yourself up and out by pushing against the dock with your hands, but something is keeping your skull submerged. You flail wildly around and discover that a firm hand is grabbing your hair and pushing you down; someone is trying to kill you. You start kicking even more fervently now, before your strength begins to wane and oh god you wake up and jerk upright, panting hysterically and eyes wide. It is god-knows-what a.m. and Rose is up with her laptop. You could murder her, you really could.

“Bad dreams?” she says idly. It only serves to put you more on edge.

“Just fine,” you hiss. You make a point to be as noisy as possible as you flip onto your side and recover yourself with the covers.

“This would be a wonderful time to delve into your subconscious anxieties, you know.”

“Shut the fuck up, Lalonde.”


	2. Distortion

Vriska arrives eighteen minutes late, which somehow neither surprises nor bothers you. You are at a table in the nicer of the two cafés on Main Street, right across from where the two of you first re-met. She finds where you are seated easily enough and settles in.

She doesn’t look good at all today, in terms of appearance or attitude. Her hair is even more tangled than it was yesterday, though it looks interesting the way it is shaven up on one side, and the bags under her eyes indicate that she mustn’t have slept well at all. “Rough night?” you ask. She only grumbles in response. You fold your hands before you and stretch them forward as far as possible. “I’ll get us something to eat. What would you like?”

“Um, shit,” she says, rotating and craning her neck so that she could read the menu hanging over the registers. “The, uh… the breakfast wrap.”

You advance up to the counter and order a wrap and a blueberry parfait and two hazelnut coffees.

When you return to the table, Vriska has her head in her folded arms. You set down the meal and follow suit so that if she looks up, you are eye-level. You lightly tap her head with your knuckles and she peeks up from her fortress of limbs. She growls and grabs the nearest cup of coffee without even looking at it and takes a large swig. You can’t help but wonder whether she is impervious to the no doubt scalding liquid or if she is just that tired that she doesn’t even register the pain. Perhaps a combination.

The following silence is a little awkward, so you start yammering about yourself, despite the fact that Vriska seems a little preoccupied with her meal. You tell her what you’re majoring in (English literature), how you were adopted and then moved to Scotland, where your mother was stationed as an officer in the Navy. You spent about ten years there before moving back to America. In the meantime, you picked up this accent, though you retained a lot of American sayings and such. It was the cause of a bit of teasing as you grew up there, and some of the locals tried to get you to use more well-known idioms, but in the early years you found it all a little silly. You also talk about a lot of other unrelated things, like the few months you spent living on a ship because of your mother’s job, and you end up forgetting completely about the food you bought for yourself.

“So,” she says before gulping down the last of the wrap. “Scotland, eh?” Okay, you guess she was listening. “Why did you decide to move back to America?”

You shrug. “None of the universities back home really captured my heart. I mean, there were plenty of schools I think I would have been happy to attend, but I felt like I needed to see my homeland again.”

“Homeland,” she echoes, chuckling and staring into her open coffee cup. “Home of greasy deathburgers, legions of Biblefuckers, and real-life Oompa-Loompas. I totally see how you missed it.” You shrug, unfazed by her cynicism. At least she seems more awake now. You remember your breakfast and start to play with it idly, choosing to eat it slowly as the two of you look down at your hands in silence for a minute or two.

“What about you? What have you been up to?” you finally ask.

She grips her arms a little harder and scowls. “Nothing,” she answers. “Living.”

“So you just sit around staring at walls all day?”

She actually smiles at that. “Yeah.”

“No wonder you have trouble staring at pages in a textbook. It’s much easier to stare at a wall of paint!”

“Exactly!” she exclaims, sitting up straight. Both of you laugh. Then you take a few more scoops of parfait, which is actually sort of unappetizing now that it is nearly room temperature, but you have to do _something_ to fill yet another agonizing minute of silence.

You attempt to pry some actual information from her grasp. “So… where are you going this winter break?” Her previous reaction to your asking about her life tells you she doesn’t like talking about her personal life, but your curiosity trumps any fear of being considered rude at this point.

She shrugs. This girl is all about shrugging and evading questions. To her credit, though, she actually answers this one. “Probably just back home. Nothing special.”

“Oh! So you were adopted, too?”

“Yep. Took fucking _forever_ , though.” She laughs bitterly.

“Better late than never! So what are they like? Are they nice?”

“’Nice’ is an understatement! They are fucking saints for putting up with the shit that follows me everywhere. It’s _boring_ , for Christ’s sake.”

“You’d rather they burn you at the stake for misbehaving?”

She points at you and says in a rather didactic manner, “Hey, it’s not _my_ fault everyone flips out over everything I do. It’s all just a bunch of misunderstandings and overreactions. Bunch of fucking pansies.” She drains the last of her coffee.  “The family, though, they have this instinctual need to meddle. I can’t wipe my ass without one of them texting me to make sure I used two-ply. Like, I was only at the café the other day because Kanaya was bugging me about getting some work done.”

“Kanaya?”

“The daughter. Erm, my sister. There’s two of them, Kanaya and her mom. My mom, too, I guess.”

“Ah. And ‘getting work done’ involves sleeping in a dilapidated shop?”

“Yes. Yes it does.” She shoots the wrappings of her meal at the open trash can and mutters something about bad luck when she misses. “So are we going to go write us a lab report, or what?”

“Certainly!” You gather up what’s left of your meal and discard it, leading Vriska to the door. You both exit and head for the library.

-x-x-

The fact that Vriska makes doing relatively simple schoolwork more difficult than it needs to be is an immutable fact. Well, okay, to be fair, this is quantum physics, so none of it is easy or makes any sense to you at all, but Vriska seems to be well-versed in scientific jargon, so she can work quickly when she puts her mind to it. She is really very bright, especially with numbers; it’s simply a matter of getting her to stop worrying about other things she’d rather be doing and making her care more about her work.

But you remain patient, and it eventually works. The complaints gradually become less frequent and you do get a significant amount of the assignment done. There’s still a lot of work to be completed, but Vriska’s knowledge in the topic helps speed things along (especially since you don’t know a damn thing about physics beyond what you learned in school back over the pond), though the fact that you both occasionally get off-topic and launch into a discussion about something completely unrelated for several minutes doesn’t help.

“No way, Jack Sparrow is literally _the_ shit. The series would be nothing without him!” Vriska declares during one of said discussions.

You ignore the incorrect use of “literally” and rebuke: “Jack certainly adds a necessary dash of adventure and comedy, but I find Elizabeth Swan’s character particularly admirable. There’s something to be said for a girl who can transform from a classy lady with a boring lifestyle to a strong, brave pirate. Though, I was disappointed when her love for Mr. Turner forced her to settle down.”

“Uh-huh. I think we can agree that girl pirates are the best pirates!”

“Yeah!” The two of you giggle at this. Then you are thinking about pirates and how great it would be to be one, or at least someone with a lot of daring and freedom, and you are reminded of a question you had meaning to ask. But you will save it for later. You don’t want to ruin the mood.

But as you continue working with her, it eats away at you. You find yourself watching her, trying to guess at the answer yourself, but guessing is no substitute for the truth. You know it’s kind of a rude thing to ask, but curiosity is a powerful thing.

“Vriska… may I ask you a question?”

She shoots you a glance, fingers hovering over her laptop. “What?”

“What happened to your…” For once, you’re at a loss for words, so you just gesture to the left side of your face awkwardly.

You quickly understand that this was the wrong thing to ask. She gulps, her nostrils flare, and her expression hardens. She pushes her glasses up her nose so that the dark lens covers the scarred tissue. It doesn’t really work. You don’t look away. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want…” Your voice falters and fails you.

“Good,” she says tersely. She looks around at the piles of papers and books. Her hands are plastered to either side of her computer. The sudden tension in the air is nearly tangible. You are silently thankful that she doesn’t make a scene. Perhaps she would have if she hadn’t been as cheery before. “I think we’re done here,” she says suddenly, shutting her laptop and using an arm to sweep everything into her bag.

“Vriska…” You make an attempt to grab her by the arm, but she deflects it.

“Don’t worry about it.” She sounds agitated. Your heart hits rock bottom.

You are such an idiot. Of course she wouldn’t want to talk about it. She probably gets sick of people asking why the entire left side of her face is scarred, up into the area where she’s shaven away her hair, and why half of her pinky and ring finger is gone. Why she wears one dark lens and one normal lens. It’s obviously not some birth defect because you certainly recall her looking perfectly healthy when you shared a foster home. A car accident, perhaps? Damn it, you need to stop this conjecture. She doesn’t want to talk about it, so what? She can just let the angst stew in her tangled storm of hair for all you care. Except that you _do_ care. You don’t want her to feel like you’re just another curious shark out to satisfy a daily need to carelessly expose old wounds. You want her to heal. You want to heal _her_. You need to fix this yourself. Obviously she’s not going to do it herself.

But in the moment that you stood shocked and confused, she’s already made her exit and is most likely speeding down the pathways back to her dorm.

You return to the table at which you placed your schoolbag. You notice that Vriska left her graphing calculator behind by mistake. You pick it up and inspect it. It isn’t one of the newer or fancier models; the writing on some of the keys is worn away from use. There’s also dirt on the edges of the buttons. Briefly you wonder whether you still have that calculator that your mother gave you for school back when you still had to take math classes. It was a lot like this one, only a newer model, you think. You put Vriska’s calculator in your bag and sling it over your shoulder. Perhaps you ought to look through your old supplies tonight to see what you can find.

-x-x-

\-- affableGamblignant [AG] started pestering arachnidsGrip [AG] \--  
AG: Hello, Vriska?  
AG: Okay, I know you’re pro8a8ly not going to answer, 8ut I wanted to apologize for making you uncomforta8le. It wasn’t my place to ask such an o8viously personal question when I 8arely even know you!  
AG: I hope this doesn’t hurt our friendship. To 8e honest, I haven’t made many friends at all since arriving here. I think I must annoy others with my tendency to ram8le and occasionally 8utt into the conversations of others. And it’s not as if I have very many exciting tales to share, either. I’m mostly just a 8ackground character, not a protagonist, so to speak.  
AG: 8ut that isn’t why I’m worried a8out remaining friends with you. At least, it’s not the only reason.  
AG: I enjoy talking to you a lot, Vriska. I think you’re a funny girl, in many respects of the word. It’s sort of refreshing, in a strange way, and yet nostalgic. 8ut I know you aren’t one for nostalgia, so we’ll just stick with refreshing. ::::)  
AG: I also think you don’t really need my help. I think you just need to clear your mind of a lot of 8aggage; you’re very smart when you put your mind to something.  
AG: If you still want me to work with you, though, and if you aren’t completely creeped out 8y this whole one-sided conversation, I will 8e at the li8rary at the same time tomorrow.  
AG: Also, I have your calculator. Or calcul8or, if you prefer. ::::)  
AG: Well. I supposed I will see you tomorrow. Or not. I will understand either way.  
AG: Good night!  
\--affableGamblignant [AG] ceased pestering arachnidsGrip [AG] \--

-x-x-

Vriska lopes in past the glass doors of the library at 1:08 sharp. You don’t even realize it until you look up from your book and see her standing right in front of you. “Well?” she says. “Are we going to find a table or what?”

“Oh… of course!” You rise from the small armchair and gather your things. You don’t ask if she is okay or angry at you—at least, not out loud. You try not to worry about it. She seems to be rather indifferent about it at the moment, which you suppose is best for now.

The two of you settle in and Vriska pulls up her work on her laptop. “I believe when we left off, we were halfway through the second stage of the assignment,” you begin.

“So,” she says, evidently not listening to you, “that message you left me last night… You think I’m ‘smart’ and ‘refreshing’?” She actually smiles and shakes her head.

“Oh. Well, you didn’t seem to be in a very good mood when you left our session yesterday, so I felt I had to say _something_ to cheer you up.”

“You just said those things to make me feel better, then.”

“No, no, I wasn’t lying. Everything I said was truthful. I’m merely explaining my primary motivation for that moment.”

“Uh-huh. You know, it’s okay if you think I’m great! You don’t have to explain yourself.”

You let out one, stiff laugh at this. “Thank goodness, I was feeling extremely self-conscious about it.”

“And…” she hesitates, but disguises the fact by loosening her hair from behind her ear, letting it fall over the side of her face. “we’re friends now? I mean, according to you.”

“Would you rather say that you’ve been spending time with a complete stranger these past few days?”

She rolls her eyes. “Okay, fine, I _guess_ I’ll be your friend. Consider yourself honored, because normally I make people go through a gritty obstacle course and write an eight-thousand word essay on why they’d make a good addition to my crew!”

“You have a lot of friends?”

Vriska bobs her head half-willingly. “Eh. I have people who tolerate my existence, but few of the losers I hang with could be called my ‘friends.’ Especially since some of them think I’m no good. I mean, sure, I’ve been involved in a few misunderstandings, but… whatever!”

“Right, misunderstandings.” You have a feeling that a fair number of such instances were not misunderstandings at all, but you’re willing to give her the benefit of the doubt. “Anyway, let’s get to work, shall we?” She begrudgingly agrees.

-x-x-

These meetings continue for a few days, though you don’t have as much time on weekdays due to conflicting schedules. Vriska gets a lot more done on her own, though, and you suspect she hardly needs you anymore, at least not for a while. And so you use the time when Vriska is silently working across the desk from you to send a few emails and do some networking. You’re working on a surprise for her, though it is also for you.

It isn’t until a week later, after she’s submitted the assignment and you haven’t seen each other for a few days, that she suspects something’s up.

AG: Are you doing anything this weekend?  
AG: No, why do you care?  
AG: No reason. ::::)  
AG: Are you plaaaaaaaanning something? Should I be suspicious? I am suspicious.  
AG: Do I look like the girl with the plans here?  
AG: In this case, yes!  
AG: ::::P

Then it’s Friday and you’re driving down the highway at a reasonable speed, Vriska sitting to your right with her hair clean and straight since you insisted that she look a bit more presentable for this journey, though in more polite terms. It’s already looking a bit disheveled.

“Damn, Aranea, why didn’t you tell me you had a convertible? And why the hell aren’t we riding with the top down?” She presses her palms to the ceiling, as if that would make the roof shrink back.

You smile. “It was a graduation gift from my mother. For good marks and such.”

“Typical,” she huffs.

For the rest of the journey—which takes about three hours—you and she chat endlessly. You mention how strange it is that the weather is so fair this late in the year, and she says don’t worry; shit will hit the fan come December, and either of you occasionally comment on the song playing on the radio. She seems to favor hard rock and similar such genres, while you like to think that your musical taste is a little more open-minded.

Eventually you are driving through one of those cookie-cutter neighborhoods with streets lined with white houses and spacious front yards and a nice car or two in each driveway. You’d told Vriska to close her eyes (well… eye), but of course she refused. It doesn’t really matter to you either way.

“Wait a second…” she says, pressing her forehead to the side window in an attempt to somehow phase through it and look around outside. You suppress the urge to finally explain in unnecessary detail what it is you are doing here and how it came to be. Like you said, you want it to be a surprise.

Soon you pull up to an unsuspecting driveway in which a single car is parked. The front yard features a tire swing bound to a tall maple tree as well as an old, worn pogo ride, like the ones they put in public playgrounds. Vriska sees these and quickly makes the connection. “Aranea,” she says, looking at you hard in the face. But she says nothing further.

“What is it?”

She looks away, exhaling through her nose, lips pressed together tightly. She seems a little wary, or perhaps agitated. “What are we doing here?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t play dumb. This is the Egberts’ house.”

 “Mr. Egbert invited us to dinner, that’s all.”

“Uh-huh. And you had nothing to do with this.”

“Of course not.” You exit the car. Vriska stays behind. You sigh and fetch her from the passenger side. “Come on!” you say, grabbing her by the hand and leading her to the front door of the house.

You ring the doorbell once, and Vriska fidgets when you don’t ring it seven more times. Or, wait, maybe it’s because you forgot to let go of her hand. These things slip your mind sometimes.

The door opens to reveal a man with a large nose and a sharp fedora. He looks exactly the same as he did years ago, albeit with a few more wrinkles and silver hairs. “Aranea! Vriska!” He looks at you both, and you wonder if he knows which is which.

You step forward and shake his hand. “Hello, Mr. Egbert! It’s so good to see you again!” He draws you in for a hug. Then he lets you go and turns his attention to Vriska. For a moment she doesn’t get the cue to embrace until he’s standing there with his arms up for an awkward couple of seconds. Then there’s an “Uh, hi,” and she gives him a quick, halfhearted hug. He doesn’t seem to notice her hesitance.

“Come in,” he says, and you obey. He leads you into the living room, which is filled with gentlemanly portraits of hats and pipes and things. There are not one, but two cakes sitting around in the room. What strange interests this man has, you think. The two of you sit on the sofa, while he remains standing. “Look at you two. All grown up. I am so, so proud of you.” You heart nearly melts. John and Jane are lucky to have such a doting father. Oh, that reminds you.

“Thank you, sir,” you respond as you tuck a lock of hair behind your ear. “Wh—“

“Where _are_ John and Jane?” Vriska takes the words out of your mouth.

“Ah. Unfortunately, they couldn’t make it. They’re at school, making their old man proud.”

“Oh.” There he goes again with being proud. You forgot about that part during the decade you were away.

An oven timer chimes and Vriska jumps beside you. Mr. Egbert brightens. “Oh! That’ll be the roast beef!” He charges into the kitchen, clearly on a mission.

Minutes later you are seated around a table and digging into one of Mr. Egbert’s famous dishes (for the record, everything that he cooks is famous around here, or so you recall). “Tell me,” he begins in between bites, “what have you both been up to? Aranea, what is this exotic accent that you have?”

“Oh, well, I may have picked up on some of the nuances of the Scottish way of speaking. I was adopted by a kind woman in the British military who was stationed here briefly. Soon after, she was re-stationed in Glasgow, and we stayed in that area until it was time for me to choose a university. I considered attending Oxford for a time, but then I found that I was more drawn to the idea of studying back in my home country.” You pause, considering. “It would have been nice to be a part of such a prestigious school, but coming back here was more of an adventure. I think it’s worth it.”

“Wow. What a plunge! It takes a lot of courage to move to another country alone.”

“Well, I was pretty lonesome until I found Vriska. Now she’s stuck with me!” You both laugh. Vriska grumbles.

“How about you, Vriska?” he asks.

“I don’t… well.” She seems a little more uncertain than usual. “You know, I just… well, the important thing is that I have a place to call ‘home’ now. That’s all that matters to me.” He asks what the family is like and she explains them as she did to you: meddlesome and fussy.

He smiles at this. “Better fussy and loving than neglectful, right?”

Vriska averts her eyes and mumbles out a “yeah.” For everyone’s sake, you’re glad he heeded the warning included in your email to him to not ask about the scars.

You all eat in silence for a bit. Then Mr. Egbert starts to reminisce. “Goodness, I remember when you first started living here, Vriska. You were too little to even know your own last name! But Aranea sure knew hers; always introduced herself to strangers as ‘Miss Aranea Serket.’ She said it so much that you started to call yourself Vriska Serket!” He pauses to chuckle. “No one ever knew your official last name, so it just stuck.”

Vriska looks over at you with knitted brows. “I didn’t know that.” It almost sounds accusatory.

“Of course you didn’t, you never even asked me what my last name was!”

“Oh.” She starts to stare at the gob of mashed potatoes in front of her. “I guess I never thought about it.”

“You two were inseparable back then, too,” he continues. “What with the surname business and how alike you looked, you were often mistaken for twins. The fact that I dolled you up in matching outfits didn’t help, either.” He finishes off his steamed carrots. “Actually, I had you each take a DNA test at the doctor’s to make sure you _weren’t_ related! You aren’t, of course.”

“Good,” says Vriska, “I don’t think I’d be comfortable knowing that I had _nerd genes_ in my DNA.” You shoot her a skeptical glance over your fork full of roast beef. She looks gratified for a moment, then returns to internally moping.

Once the main course is finished, it is time for cake. The rest of the chatter is not as exciting, and honestly, you kind of tune out every now and then unintentionally. You keep glancing at Vriska to see if she is having a decent time, but she looks distant. You wonder if it would be unwise to ask her about it later.

After cake, you say that you have to go. It’s a long drive, and you want to get back before midnight. This is only part of the reason, but you don’t think Mr. Egbert needs to know that you’re sparing Vriska further boredom and discomfort. He gives you each a final hug and an “I’m proud of you” to boot before letting you take off.

The ride back is significantly quieter than the one a few hours earlier. You would attribute it to sleepiness if you didn’t know her any better. You don’t press her now, though. You don’t want this trip to be any more awkward.

Back on campus, though, is another story. You park in the student lot and walk her back to her dorm’s door, where you stop her. “Listen, Vriska, I’m sorry if what I did wasn’t okay. Taking you to the Egberts’ home, I mean.”

“It’s no big deal,” she responds dismissively. You are relieved to hear that she sounds at least somewhat sincere. She brings up a hand to rub at the back of her neck. “I wish John had been there, at least.”

“Yes, I was disappointed at that, too, but at least Mr. Egbert seemed as spry as ever.”

“Yeah.” A half-smile appears on her face. “Heh. I won’t be getting into any cars with you behind the wheel for a while!” She sighs and looks at something across the street, or perhaps at nothing in particular. A drop of rain falls upon your glasses and you flinch. You take them off and clean them with part of your skirt.

“Vriska?” you say almost involuntarily. You don’t even know what you want to say to her. Her name just slipped out.

“What?” She faces you again. You can make out her blue eyes darting about your face, briefly surveying what you look like without your large glasses.

And the next thing you know, you are tenderly pressing your lips against hers. You didn’t even realize you had been that close to her. Maybe you weren’t. It’s hard to say when your mind is fuzzy with thoughts of how right her lips feel against yours. She doesn’t push you away… but she doesn’t respond much, either. When you pull back, she looks perplexed. You successfully fight the urge to place a hand to her face, even though the deep breath she takes makes it extremely hard for you to keep yourself under control.

Suddenly she looks away and hastens to the door. Before you understand what she is doing, she is slipping her ID in the lock and throwing it open and hurrying through the entrance. “Vriska, wait, I didn’t—“ The door slams shut. You are alone.

Stupid, stupid, stupid! Great romantic skills, Serket, you’re a regular ladykiller. You don’t even know for sure if she likes girls. You guess you just sort of assumed as much, since she reads your silly story online. But no, that doesn’t even make sense, since Mindfang doesn’t even only sleep with women. Damnit! You’ve just been getting caught up in your own whims like a child. Now you’ll be lucky if she decides to even speak to you, unless you somehow manage to fix this.

You make haste back to your own dorm. Soon you are at your laptop, fixing to write her an apology message. But your fingers are frozen. Because you aren’t really sorry for what you did. Well, you are sorry, mostly due to her reaction, but then you pass a finger over your lips and wish you could do it again and again.

So, instead, you pull up the latest chapter of the Marquise and start to write.


	3. Practicing Vengeful Mechanisms

You’re lying in your bed staring at the ceiling. It’s quiet and you’re dead tired, but you don’t feel comfortable in your skin. Your flesh feels like it’s crawling. You try to relax and close your eyes, but you only succeed in becoming more and more itchy and twitchy. This is ridiculous. You feel like you need some lotion or something. Anything to stop the prickles traveling in waves up your arms and legs. So you throw the covers off and prepare to delve into your small collection of toiletries.

You don’t even make it out of the bed. You nearly shriek when you see yourself uncovered. There are huge, hairy spiders crawling all over your body. You aren’t normally afraid of spiders, not at all, but this is way too fucking many. You try to slap them off and crawl out of bed, but you only anger them; they start to bite, all at once. You yelp and feel your muscles seize as their venom burns through your veins. You lose control of your movements and start to tremble violently, whether because of the pain or because the toxins are affecting your nervous system, you don’t know. When open your clenched eyes, you see that your arm is boiling with blisters and open wounds, like a brown recluse decided to try and devour you. You watch as one of the welts splits open further and further, and you scream when you see whitish bone appear.

You’re sitting up in your bed, trembling and sweating. God fucking damnit. You’re a mess. It looks like these nightmares are going to be a regular thing now. Just like old times. That seems to be a recurring theme lately. You hate it.

Rose isn’t here, but she may as well be. You can just hear her patronizing offer to “talk about it” and figure out what the hell is wrong with you. It’s none of her goddamned business. You reach from between your mattress and your bed frame and pull out your hidden revolver. You do this from time to time when you get frustrated. You got it about a year ago when you beat your chum in a poker match. It’s a classic beauty. You run your thumb over the skull carved into the ivory handle. It’s nice. Doing this normally calms you, reminds you of the time you wiped that confident grin off his dorky face. But right now it’s only making you angrier. You remember someone you don’t want to. You realize the real reason that it soothes you; because when you find that someone again, you’ll finally get to use it.

You can’t even stand to be here right now. You jump out of bed, put the gun back, and grab your jacket. You are fully aware that you are wearing the same thing as you were yesterday as you are stomping down the hall, violently shoving your arms through the armholes of your zip-up hoodie.

You need a walk. You need to think. You start running over things in your mind and try to sort out your thoughts.

So Aranea kissed you. Okay. You’re alright with that. It’s totally cool. You’re not so concerned about that. What you are concerned about, though, is how overwhelming it all was. Because you are Vriska fucking Serket, and you never get overwhelmed by anything.

Except you’re not Vriska Serket. You aren’t a Serket at all, not really. Your own fucking name was a fake all this time. Your name could be Johnson for all you know. Vriska Johnson. Fuck me, you think.

It’s all because of _her_. _She_ just couldn’t leave you alone, and now, after having some semblance of a hold on your life, you are falling apart again. Sure, when you’re with her, everything’s alright; she’s not like a lot of the tools you know, and you share some interests, and sometimes when you’re around her you can even manage to think back at parts of your childhood with something resembling fondness. And even though she dresses like a dork, you find her appearance to be sort of precious in a way. You’ve lost count of the number of times you’ve found her waiting for you at the library, arms crossed across a stack of fresh books and eyes glowing at the prospect of getting to read them. What a kid, you think with a smirk. But when you’re away from her, your memories turn sour. You recollect people screaming at you, people screaming around you, disapproving glances, the familiar news that someone doesn’t want to deal with you anymore, scalding water, distant voices discussing metal shrapnel, a ring of bruising around your wrist, white curtains and repeats of Gilligan’s Island. Skin missing and put in places that it wasn’t before. Things you’d taken years to forget about, all tearing through the surface of your thoughts like sharks. You just want to forget. But _she_ won’t let you.

You have to extract revenge somehow. Not in your traditional way; she doesn’t deserve that. You need to take lessons from Rose in the art of passive-aggression. Your mind wanders to the sea. You wonder if she misses it; you know she spoke well of it and the time she spent aboard a ship. You wonder if she’s homesick at all. You wonder if she’d like the city, and whether it would be like being in, what was it, Glasgow. You formulate a plan.

You’re now at the entrance of Aranea’s building. You knew the way because you’d walked her to her dorm a few times after study sessions. You’re able to get in without a problem; student IDs will unlock any student dorms during daylight hours, though you can’t get into any individual room without a key. Once inside, you wander the halls until you see a group of girls sitting around in one of the public group rooms. You duck in and ask where Aranea Serket’s room is. They all look oblivious for a moment until one of them speaks up. “Oh, Aranea? She’s in the room right across from mine. 208, I think.”

And then you’re stomping down the hall to room 208, shoving a few suckers out of your way. You find her door, which has a spider-shaped cutout taped onto it that says “Aranea Serket ::::)” (other doors had handmade nametags as well, though were generally on the gaudy side). You slam your fist on the door eight times. You hear movement within, then a muffled voice call “Coming,” then footsteps, and then the door is open. “Vriska?” She looks groggy, as if you’d just woken her up. You guess she didn’t go right to bed after you sort of left her standing outside in the middle of the night. You are such a ladykiller. “What are you doing here?” she continues. “Is something wrong?” She stands aside to let you in. You enter and she closes the door behind you. Then, oddly enough, she scrambles past you to shut her laptop, which was sitting open on her bed for some reason. You don’t answer any of her questions, nor do you ask any. She walks back over to you, puzzlement overriding her exhaustion. “Um… listen, if you’re here about last night, I wanted to apologize—“

You shut her up by meeting her wish a kiss. She hums against your mouth in surprise, but you don’t relent. Your hands move to her hips and you kiss her a little more urgently, as if to convince her to return the favor. She complies, pressing closer and trying to match your enthusiasm. Both of your glasses scrape against each other. She moves her hands to either side of you face and brushes a thumb across your cheek with one hand and removes your glasses with the other, then knits her fingers into your hair. Your hands slide up her waist slowly. She responds by pulling you deeper into the kiss. She tastes like breath mints, which is probably good because you guess you taste like cigarettes. Your skin tingles where her eyelashes tickle your cheek for a moment. You lose track of your own hands during their trek across her back, as you are too focused on the way your lips feel so perfect together, how her teeth occasionally catch on your lower lip, and how inconvenient your clothes feel right now.

She breaks off the kiss, though you remain wrapped around each other. You each take a moment to catch your breath. “Vriska…” she finally says. “What’s wrong?” Even though you never gave any indication of something being wrong.

“Unfinished business,” you say with a smile. She smirks and rolls her eyes.

“That’s not what I meant.” She runs her fingertips along the scarred side of your face absently.

She wants the bigger picture, then. You sigh and push her away, abruptly choosing to sit on the side of her bed instead. You pat the place beside you, urging her to sit. She obeys. You angle yourself so that you are facing her with one leg forming a half-pretzel on the bed, the other hanging over the side. “Do you want to know how I got these scars?” Aranea’s eyes flicker downwards. She remembers what happened last time she asked. You hook a finger under her chin and force her to look you in the eyes. “Well? Do you?”

She gulps. “Only if you are comfortable telling me.”

“Yes or no, Serket.” You ignore how strange it feels to have your own name on your tongue like this.

“Well… yes. I do.”

You pause for a moment. You don’t really know why you are doing this. This is counter-productive. But… if she’s going to understand why you’re so fucked up, you need to show her. You take off your jacket and throw it on the ground. You start to peel off your shirt until Aranea catches your wrist. “Vriska, I don’t…” she trails off when she sees the look you’re giving her. She blushes and lets go of you. You resume pulling the long-sleeved shirt over your head until you are wearing nothing from the waist up except a sports bra. She gasps at what she sees.

Most of your left arm is covered in shiny, bubbled-up scars; old burns. There are some places where the doctors put skin grafts, but you had neither the excess skin nor the funds to fix it all. The side of your torso is scarred like a web of scratches and raised skin, though not quite as severely. Most of your hand was spared, save for a few missing fingers, so if you wear a long-sleeved shirt, most people only notice your odd face. “Oh my god, Vriska… I had no idea… What _happened_?” She tentatively places a hand over your upper arm. You have to admit, you’re glad she isn’t squeamish.

“I didn’t get adopted right away after moving out of the Egberts’ place like you did. The next family I got stuck with… it was one lady taking care of us foster kids. She was… a piece of work.” You give a sharp, bitter chuckle and shake your head. Aranea takes your bad hand and wraps them in her own. You tighten instinctively, but continue. “I was the oldest, so I was held responsible for pretty much everything the kids did, in her eyes. So when the younger ones would screw up or cry too loudly, I got beat up. I got beat up a lot.

“One night, she came home drunk and in a really bitchy mood. I had a friend, some little boy, over to play, but one of the nuggets got a hold of one of the kitchen knives and cut himself up pretty badly. Nothing toooooooo serious, but he was crying and bleeding a lot. So when the lady saw that, she thought I was fucking around and not paying attention. Which… I guess I wasn’t. She called me a whore and dragged me down to the basement and handcuffed me to a water pipe.

“Now, uh, this house was really old and shitty and falling apart. I don’t know how the hell this lady even qualified as a foster parent when she was living in such a shithole. Maybe it used to be nicer? I don’t know. But she never took care of anything, so things were always breaking and going to crap. Anyway, she just kept me there for, I don’t know, a day, two days, something. One day the water heater started making all these creepy noises and was shaking and I was freaking the fuck out. I tried screaming for help, but of course either no one could hear me or nobody bothered. And then, it sort of… exploded. And I got hit with a bunch of boiling water and metal shards.” Your free hand is balled into a fist. “And… the bitch didn’t even get convicted of anything.” Your voice cracks. “She said that the other kids were playing around with the handcuffs, and she didn’t know I was down there when it happened. She went free.” You grit your teeth, but then smile bitterly. “Fucking hell.” When you look up at Aranea, tears are welling up in her eyes. She is looking at you with such horror and pity that your heart feels like it is wrenched from your chest, whether from frustration or what, you don’t know.

“Oh, Vriska, I am so, so sorry,” she says, pulling you into a hug. But you are too tense now to return the favor properly.

“For _what_? For having the perfect life while I can’t stay in a house for a year without getting in trouble? I never cooperated with my foster parents again after that, by the way.”

She pulls away and looks at you again. “Vriska, you need to talk to someone about this.”

“No! Aranea, I am talking to someone! I’m talking to _you_! Because ever since you showed up, I can’t go a day without being reminded of what happened, of everything that happened that I’ve tried so hard to forget about.” Your thoughts fly to the revolver under your mattress.

“You can’t keep something like this bottled up!”

“Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do!” You’ve removed her hands from yours; your hands are now two iron grips around her wrists.

“But—“

“No, listen to me. _Listen_!” you snap when she attempts to speak again. “I never saw her or the kids again, but the fact still hung around me like a fucking _stink_. All my foster parents reminded me of her, the way they’d blame me for everything I did or whatever they _thought_ I did, and they always hated me, and I fucking hated them right back! But then I ended up with some folks who said, Hey, maybe being giant dicks isn’t a great way to make a bitch less of a dick, and suddenly eeeeeeeeverything’s peachy and Vriska Serket is less of a fucking psycho and I could just _forget_ everything. And I did! It was great! Just great. But then you come along and act like, oh, look, everything’s fine, I got to live on a pretty boat and go swimming with the Loch Ness monster every Tuesday, and I’m sure everything’s dandy for you, too, and that giant fucking mess that is your face is only from a little water polo accident, not something that’s actually fucking traumatizing, oh, no! Hey, I have an idea, let’s go have supper with some old guy we kind of remember and reminisce about how totally fucking awesome our childhoods were, and pretend nothing bad ever happened!” Throughout the tirade your grip has tightened and you are practically screaming at her. Now you’ve stopped and your breath is hissing through your nose and your jaw is clenched so tight that it aches.

“Vriska, I— if that’s how you feel, then I…” She averts her eyes. She looks hurt. “Are you telling me to leave you alone?”

“No, I…” You trail off and loosen your grasp. For some reason the very suggestion seems out of the question to you. “I don’t know, okay? I just… thought you should know these things about me. Because… we’re sort of stuck with each other, I guess. I just wanted you to listen.”

“I am listening.” She sighs. “I’m…I’m glad you told me, Vriska. It means a lot to me.” She leans in and kisses you on the forehead. You relent,sighing, and hang your head in the crook of her neck. She starts to run her fingers through your hair and the two of you stay like that for a while. Eventually, though, she pushes you away by the shoulders and says, “Let’s take a walk.” And so you do.

-x-x-

A few weeks pass. The nightmares don’t stop. You don’t tell anyone about them; the only one who knows is Rose, and she knows better than to blab about it. Not that she even cares to.

When you aren’t wrapped up in schoolwork, you spend a lot of time with Aranea. She doesn’t seem to mind doing whatever you want to do, which is good because you don’t think you could stand to sit around reading books with her all the time. She even comes to try LARPing with you and Terezi once. She thinks it’s pretty silly at first, but she picks it up right away, and she’s not half bad. She gets really bashful and flustered when she realizes that you are playing as Mindfang and Terezi is playing as Redglare, though. When you tell Terezi why, she practically attacks Aranea and, of course, cackles like an idiot. So embarrassing.

You also hang out in Aranea’s room a lot (her roommate moved out some time ago and somehow still hasn’t been replaced, what the hell), where you brainstorm ideas for the Marquise and talk about, y’know, stuff. Sometimes you sit around thinking about ways to extract revenge on her while she taps away at her computer, because, despite your friendship, or whatever this disease is called, the fact remains that you need to make her pay, one way or another. It is during this time that you perfect your plan.

-x-x-

You’ve made arrangements with your folks back home for Thanksgiving. You haven’t told Aranea yet because, of course, she owes you after that whole Egbert fiasco. Not that it was actually a fiasco, but pretending that it was makes her squirm, and you never fail to notice how cute she is with a small frown on her face.

So she doesn’t make much of a fuss when you tell her to pack her bags and get in your dark blue Chevy Cobalt. You can’t help but smirk stupidly when you think of the revenge you are about to wreak. You never did ask Rose how to be passive-aggressive. Not that you really needed to. Your plan is flawless.

The ride doesn’t take as long as the one to the Egberts’. By the time reach the condominium complex , you’re pretty sure Aranea has worked out the first part of your plan: meeting the family.

Kanaya and your mom are happy enough to see you that you’d think they’d never known that you’d paralyzed a kid by pushing him out of a moving car or tricked a girl’s boyfriend into selling her entire collection of ancient heirlooms. You introduce Aranea and explain how you’d already known each other. They accept her readily enough, and mom seems relieved that you’re spending time with someone whose hobbies don’t include burning things. At dinner, you answer the usual questions; yes, school is going fine; no, you haven’t gotten into trouble since you last talked; yes, you wash your clothes regularly (okay, that one’s a lie). Then mom interrogates Aranea about herself, et cetera, while Kanaya shoots her some pretty pointed glances which you definitely don’t fail to catch. When you call her out on this in front of everyone, of course, she denies it. Whatever.

At night you sleep on the couch while Aranea’s on the guest bed, and for once, your dreams aren’t entirely heinous.

The next morning, you awake to the sounds of pans clattering and ovens beeping. It’s Thanksgiving day, so of course everyone keeps to the tradition of starting to cook in the early hours of the morning and not stopping until there’s food already on the table. Grumbling, and without haste, you rise and peek over the edge of the couch to check things out.

You find Kanaya and Aranea working with what looks like dough. Fussbucket’s kneading it, while the other is plopping gobs of the stuff onto a large pan-type-object. You don’t know the proper term for the thing. Mom has just finished cleaning the turkey in the sink. “Good morning, honey. It’s nice to see that you’ve gotten up before dinner this time.” You roll your eyes. She doesn’t tell you to do anything because she knows that you’re not to be trusted with food when it’s near open flames. Or at all, really. At least everyone seems to be getting along just fine, you guess.

You spend most of the day on the couch watching television, attempting to garner some amusement from some good old American football. It’s not as fun, though, when they’re all wearing so much padding that they can’t even catch the ball right.

Dinner itself is as uneventful (by which you mean _boring_ ) as ever. You don’t get why it’s such a big deal to have such a fancy meal, not that anyone could tell with how quickly you inhale the turkey. And green beans. And potatoes. And beets. Meanwhile, Kanaya and Aranea both ramble about everything that has ever happened ever, and everyone’s happy and laughing and you can’t help but feel sick to your stomach. And of course, they stay at the table after they’re finished eating because there is just _so much to talk about_ and you are forced to sit there through it. Well, you aren’t _forced_ to, but you don’t feel like going to bed or wherever alone at the moment. You guess you wouldn’t be so bored if you actually tuned into the conversation.

“That’s funny, I didn’t know she liked to read anything. In any instance in which I commented on the quality of a book’s content or even went so far as to recommend that she read a certain novel, she always seemed rather uninterested.” Oh, hey, looks like they’re talking about you. But then, why wouldn’t they be?

“Well, excuse me if I have no interest in your booooooooring Twilight books,” you say snidely.

“You would if they included pirates,” she retorts.

“Well, yeah! Pirates automatically make a story eight-hundred percent better! Right, Aranea?”

“Well, eight-hundred percent is a steep overestimation, but I think—“

“Yeah, see? Pirates are way higher than vampires on the awesomeness spectrum.”

Kanaya narrows her eyes. “Fine. We will agree to disagree. And besides, the light in which the Twilight saga is shown in the media and by those who dislike it is not representative of the genuine quality of the series.”

“Yes it is. It’s awful literature,” Aranea whispers to you under her breath. You nearly crack up.

“Well, I think that we should watch a movie before heading off to bed. Any suggestions?” says your mom.

“Christ,” you say. Picking a movie is always an ordeal in this household; no one can ever agree on anything. Well, mom and Kanaya usually can, but considering you will walk out on any movie you don’t approve of, there’s always a fair amount of debate about it… which is what happens when everyone starts to clean up the dishes (everyone except you, of course). Kanaya seems to want to watch a romantic comedy that her friend Karkat recommended to her, while mom wants to watch some feel-good movie. You demand to watch Treasure Island because it’s a fucking classic, and Thanksgiving is all about tradition and old stuff. Aranea seems excited about your movie choice, too, though of course she also says she’s up for anything. Jesus fucking Christ in a can.

In the end you choose to watch National Treasure, because stealing the Declaration of Independence is about as patriotic as you can get on Thanksgiving, and as far as you’re concerned, Nicholas Cage is a national hero. As an added bonus, Aranea falls asleep and ends up with her head in your lap, so it’s face-touch city for you. Damn, you are smooth, Serket.

When the movie is over, you end up just carrying her to bed, even though she is “perfectly capable of walking with her own two feet, thank you very much.” While she is distracted with brushing her teeth, you begrudgingly set the alarm to six a.m.  As you listen to her prepare for bed and after you change into your pajamas, you reflect on the mission’s status so far. Stage 1 has been a bit lackluster, but that’s to be expected what with your folks being so dull. You hope that at the very least, she’s felt a bit homesick. Should all go according to plan, stage 2 will exemplify key parts of that sickness, while also making you look like a totally awesome friend (which you are). You can’t help but give a sinister smile at the thought of stage 3. This is where it will come to a point. You’ve been holding back for ages in preparation for the finale. After that, she will be sorry she ever stuck her meddling nose into your business. Why you attract so many meddlers, you will never know.

Aranea eventually comes to bed. She protests when you lie down next to her; she says if you want to sleep in the bed then she could just move to the couch, seeing as there is only one guest bed. You stop her gabbing by running your hand along her waist and drawing your face extremely close to hers. She squirms and blushes when you don’t actually kiss and you leave her hanging like a chump. “Damn you, Vriska Serket,” she mumbles, and then she kisses you.

You spend a significant amount of time kissing lazily with her on top of you. Well, _you_ kiss lazily; she doesn’t seem to understand the very concept of laziness, so her kisses are always all either business-like or passionate. And occasionally totally sleazy, though she’d give you a lecture if you pointed that out. When she gets tired of your sloppiness she raps you on the head with her knuckles and glares at you. You laugh and roll over so that you are hovering over her, then start kissing all along her jaw and down her neck. That shuts her up. Sort of.

To be fair, she _is_ pretty great at kissing. Apparently having the last name of Serket grants you excellent abilities in this department, because she’s almost as good at it as you are.

But you don’t let it go beyond kissing. As much as Aranea seems to want to, and as much as you definitely want to, you tap into your impressive powers of self-control and hold off. You’re not about to ruin your evil plan.

-x-x-

Six a.m. in the morning. The alarm is shrieking in your good ear. You get up in record time and start throwing some clothes on. Aranea is confused. “What time is it?” she asks, stretching her arms above her head. Six, you say. “Six o’clock? Why is it so early?”

You toss a dress of hers in her direction. “Don’t you want to go on an adventure?” you inquire. “You never shut up about it.” Which is an exaggeration, but still pretty much true.

“An adv…” she gives a short laugh and rolls her eyes. “Fine. I’ll make some coffee.”

“I hate coffee!”

“It’ll be an _adventure_ ,” she chimes on her way out the bedroom door. You wish she’d cut the crap for once and hurry the hell up; traffic’s going to be a bitch.

When you’re both all dressed and ready, Kanaya and mom are waiting to say goodbye. Aranea and Kanaya exchange chumhandles and you tell your sister not to hit on your chums all the time, to which she babbles some nigh-incoherent explanation and you say “I was _joking_ , Kanaya, lighten up!” You bid farewell to everyone and hurry out the door.

-x-x-

Aranea hits you with a barrage of questions during the car ride. You guess you used up your one semi-unannounced-road-trip pass with the quest to your place. You, of course, skillfully deflect all questions directed at you by simply not answering.  She stops asking anything when the skyscrapers come into view.

You park on the top floor of one of the garages dotting the area and start walking the streets, which, holy shit, there are _tons_ of people out here. Are there usually this many people wandering Seattle?

“Are there usually this many people wandering Seattle?” Aranea asks as a stranger bumps shoulders with her.

Ignoring the fact that she just asked the exact question that was just in your head, you reply, “I don’t know, I’ve never been—hey, watch it, asshole!—to this city before.” Then you realize. “Oh, fuck, it’s Black Friday!”

“Black Fri—oh, oh my gosh, so these are all _shoppers_? That is what you do on Black Friday, correct? Swarm the streets hunting for bargains?”

“Yeah. Looks like we picked a prime time to be here. Good thing I memorized the way!”

“I should hope so. I was a little nervous when you said you’d never been here. A city is a city, after all!”

“Ha! Vriska Serket is neeeeeeeever unprepared.”

“Apparently not. My hero,” she mocks.

You had hoped to see more cool stuff while you were heading to your destination, but the masses of people are unbearably dense. Luckily not many actually get in your way; everyone knows what store to go to next, so they aren’t lingering much. It’s like watching a swarm of ants at work, only instead of ants they are just a bunch of losers looking to buy huge televisions they don’t need for half of the normally inflated price. Of course, there are some idiots who think it’s okay to stare at you as you walk by. You don’t know if it’s the noticeable scars on your face or the fact that you’re hand in hand with such a pretty girl.

You soon reach the docks. There aren’t many ships in motion today what with it being the day after Thanksgiving, so it was hard for you to find one that wasn’t going to stay at port all day, but of course, you managed. You pull out the tickets and hand one to Aranea. “What’s this?” She skims it. “Puget Sound boat tours… What—“ You silence her with a nudge and point to the boat. “Oh! Are we going for a boat ride?”

You flick the side of her glasses. “No, dingus, we’re taking a rocket to the moon. Of course we’re going on a boat ride, duh!”

She pushes you, but you can see that she’s smiling. Together, you go up to the man checking people in and hand in your tickets.

This boat is not just your usual “let’s go for a boat ride” boat. It’s goddamn classy, by your standards. It has two decks—one on the roof of the boat and one main deck—and the main deck features a large indoor area with a small buffet and a dance floor. There’s also room outside to lean on the railings and see the sights. And, of course, the passengers are welcome to lounge on the roof of the ship and enjoy the view. You picked a pretty fine-ass ship, if you do say so yourself. “Holy ship,” says Aranea, and you nearly drag her back off the boat for saying such a lame pun. Too bad you already paid for the tickets.

You line up at the buffet first. There isn’t actually all that much to choose from, but who even cares. The speakers start pumping some upbeat music, though nobody dances yet. On your way to a table Aranea catches your arm. “We should dance!” she says.

“Uh, no, we should eat first because I’m _starving_ ,” you reply. You find a spot and sit next to each other.

“Well, obviously. But, don’t you ever dance? Did you attend any school dances, like prom?” She leans in a little closer and asks with a sly smile, “Did you have a _date_?”

You laugh. “None of you goddamned business! I ain’t gonna dance, and that’s that. Not to this garbage, anyway. Though if you have some sort of traditional Scottish jig or whatever, I’d totally be into watching you do that.” You cock an eyebrow at that. Aranea gives up.

Later you’re out on the roof of the ship watching the city skyline slowly slide by. You attempt to breach her emotional defenses; the target for stage 2 of your evil plan. “Do you ever get homesick?” you ask.

She looks at you, surprised you’d actually care about anything that is even remotely related to her feelings. Then she looks back to the city and leans over the railing a bit. “Sometimes. Especially at times like this. Glasgow is a beautiful city, though none of the buildings are as tall as many of the ones here. There are a lot of old buildings, but a lot of modern ones, too. Lots of streets are dominated by pedestrians rather than motor vehicles, so it’s not usually as cramped as Seattle because there’s more space to breathe as you walk. There’s also blah blah blah blah…” You start to zone her out. It’s hard to avoid sometimes. Especially when she does not. Stop. Talking.

You wait until you hear a wistful sigh and then silence before you wrap your arm around her waist and let her lean her head on your shoulder. It abruptly occurs to you that you’re not actually sure how making her homesick will qualify as sufficient revenge. Surely no emotions you draw from her through this effort would match those that you felt after the Egbert incident and such. You guess this whole date thing just makes you look like a romantic or something. Damn it.

A few hours pass. You spend the time sightseeing from the deck and talking. Fifteen minutes before you make port, you head back down to the main deck. There’s mellow music playing and a few couples are slow-dancing. You feel a hand grab yours and look over to see that Aranea is glancing meaningfully to the dance floor. You groan and protest. She doesn’t listen. Instead she drags you to the center (attempting to escape is useless at this point, so you don’t struggle) and wraps her arms around your shoulders. You awkwardly place your hands at her waist. You don’t really know what you’re doing. You trod on her toes a few times, but she laughs at your frustrated clumsiness. You grumble ceaselessly until she kisses you like she did that night after your trip to the Egberts’, all slow and tender, and you close your eyes and return the favor.

-x-x-

You’ve just returned to the hotel room from the store, two packs of beer in hand. Aranea is drying her hair after a shower. You throw on some pajamas (which consist of a loose t-shirt and your boxers) and flop onto one of the beds to watch some television. A few minutes later Aranea is curled up next to you. You hand her a beer and crack one open yourself. She eyes the can and asks about the drinking age, to which you respond, What drinking age? She shrugs, opens the can and takes a swig. She scowls and looks like she’s about to say something about the quality of the drink until she sees the skeptical look you’re giving her. She adopts a look of defiance and downs the rest of it, and honestly you’re impressed. “Adventure,” you say just before you knock back your own drink. Stage 3 has begun.

Many drinks later you are both completely incomprehensible. Aranea is holding you like she’s about to tumble off the bed, even though she’s perfectly safe in the center. You guffaw at something you think is a joke but you can’t even remember what it was by the time you stop laughing. At some point you start making out very sloppily, and then somehow your hand ends up under her nightgown, and then the gown is gone, and then everyone’s clothes are gone, and you lose complete track of everything as what’s left of your senses blurs together. One of you starts making some completely undignified noises, or maybe it’s both of you, and maybe you hear your name escape from her lips, over and over, and maybe you even accidentally let her name slip from yours, and there are a whole lot of maybe’s happening all at once, and finally comes the biggest maybe of all, when you hear the only thing you’ll remember from this night come from one Miss Aranea Serket.

-x-x-

Somehow the sun still manages to edge up over the horizon and it’s morning. When you’re able to pry your eyes open and wait for your vision to stop spinning (and after you realize that it might be easier to actually put on your glasses), you see her in the washroom freshening up. You throw on a flannel and what you hope are fresh boxers and approach her. When she locks eyes with you in the mirror, she tenses and lowers her hair brush to the edge of the sink. You put your hands to her shoulders, but she shrugs them off with an irritated sigh. “What?” you ask, agitated. She just edges past you and crosses the room to her bag. You squeeze your temples with your fingers. You have neither the patience nor the sobriety for this. “What are you all clammed up about?” She stops. You see her lips tighten.

“Vriska. Tell me what happened last night.”

“We, uh. I don’t really remember much. We had sex I guess?”

She sighs slowly. Then she glances at you. “Put some fucking clothes on.”

“Hey, whoa. What the hell does that mean?”

“Vriska Serket, do not pretend you did not plan on putting me into a drunken stupor last night.”

“Pfft. As if.”

“ _Vriska_.”

“Okay, so I bought some beer and you drank some! Big deal.”

“You took advantage of me, Vriska! You took advantage of my inebriation and…” She shuts her mouth and her nostrils flare. She doesn’t even know what to do with herself.

“Oh, bullshit, you were less drunk than I was!” You hiss as your head pounds at the sudden increased volume. “And it’s not like I fucking force-fed you. So don’t fucking blame me for you not being able to keep your goddamn clothes on!”

“I wanted our first time to be special! I wanted it to be, I don’t know, romantic, memorable, half-decent! Not some clumsy, careless catastrophe!”

You ignore the fact that, whoa, she was expecting to eventually sleep with you, and shout, “Oh, well, pardon me for not getting the memo! What did you want, rose petals lining the carpet? A romantic sunset? Tell me, Aranea, so I can take some better notes for the next time I fuck you!” Aranea huffs and grabs her purse, obviously offended. You stomp right up to her and continue. “Don’t pretend you didn’t enjoy it. Don’t pretend for a second that you’ve forgotten the part where you _moaned like a whore_!”

Aranea’s hand moves like a flash and suddenly your cheek is stinging. She fucking slapped you. She fucking _backhanded_ you. As you look her in the eyes it takes every ounce of self control for you not to tear her clothes off and try to see what the back of her tongue tastes like and show her just how “romantic” you can be. Not that she even gives you the opportunity. She storms out of the room, slamming the door behind you and leaving you in the dust. You curse and kick the dresser. Where the hell does she get off? Where does she think she’s going? Like you even care. She can take care of herself.

You flop back onto the stiff bed. You’ll try to text her later. Make sure she hasn’t gotten herself mugged, though with a tongue like hers, you bet your last good eye that she could just _talk_ down an attacker. Lousy stupid goddamned pedantic spidernerd.

You drift off to sleep. Your dreams are roily and scattered, but it still manages to make you restless. You wake up sweating and barely rested. You groan loudly. This is so stupid. You need to tell someone how stupid this is. You grab your laptop from your bag and open it up.

\--arachnidsGrip [AG] started pestering grimAuxiliatrix [GA] at 12:12p. --  
AG: Kanaya, this is stupid.  
GA: Hello To You Too Vriska  
GA: And What Is Stupid If I May Ask  
AG: Aranea! She totally flippe8 the f8ck out on me and w8lked out.  
AG: And 8efore y8u ask, noooooooo, I d8dn’t do anything, sh8 is just completely overre8cting!!!!!!!!  
GA: I See Thank You For Clarifying With Your Most Convincing Evidence To Date  
GA: What Exactly Did You Allegedly Do  
AG: Urgh, I don’t even want to talk a8out it. It’s em8arassing.  
GA: Well Then Why Did You Bring It To The Conversation If It Is Not Open For Discussion  
AG: I don’t knoooooooow! Jeez gimme a 8reak. XXXXO  
AG: Just........ tell me how to 8e less of a fuckup for once, Maryam!  
GA: Hmm  
GA: Have You Tried Restarting The Computer First  
AG: You’re impossi8le. I never should have given you Lalonde’s chumhandle. She’s turned you into a monster!  
GA: It Isnt That Difficult Vriska  
GA: Girlfriends Like To Be Told Theyre Right  
GA: Do Something Nice For Her  
GA: Apologize  
AG: W8, okay, first off, I never said she was my giiiiiiiirlfriend, and second, I have 8een nothing 8ut nice to her this entire time! Well, up until a couple of hours ago. 8ut only 8ecause she started yelling!  
GA: Well Since You Wont Provide Any Details Relating To The Nature Of The Incident Then I Am Afraid I Dont Know What Tell You Im Sorry  
AG: Uuuuuuuugh. ::::(  
GA: If Youll Excuse Me I Have To Make A Withdrawal From The Bank But I Will Very Likely Be Online Later If You Need A Metaphorical Shoulder To Cry On  
AG: Fiiiiiiiine. 8ye.  
\-- arachnidsGrip [AG] ceased pestering grimAuxiliatrix [GA] at 12:18p. –-

You slide the device off the edge of the bed and let it drop. “Fuck me,” you say, ignoring the irony of the curse and collapsing against your pillow. What the hell do you have to do here? You can’t concede defeat. You _know_ she’s overreacting, or at least, that you’re not completely to blame.

You doze off again. You sleep a little more peacefully, though you still bounce back to consciousness every now and then. You are starting to dream when a loud _bang_ makes you jerk awake.

It’s Aranea. She walks across the room without looking at you and puts her bag down in a chair. “Hey,” you say. “Glad to see you’re not dead.” She glances at you from the corner of her eye. You smile at her, hoping you look smug, but you feel a little more sheepish. She doesn’t say a word, but instead slowly approaches the bed and carefully places herself so that she is straddling your lap. “Heh, I knew you’d—“

“Shut up,” she says simply.

“What?”

“Stop. Talking.” Her painfully blue eyes are staring hard into yours. You are suddenly terribly aroused by all this.

“Don’t touch me,” she says calmly, coolly, and you realize that your hands have been creeping up her thighs. You drop them to your sides. She presses her hands into the bed on either side of your hips and leans forward so that she is gently brushing against your cheek with the tip of her nose. You feel lips on the shell of your ear, then tongue. Your shoulders become tense. You are frozen, paralyzed. “I’ve ‘always had the feeling that it was very, very dangerous to live even one day,’” she whispers.

“What?” You do a mental double take. “Is that from a book or something?”

“Say you’re sorry.” She kisses your ear again.

“Fuck off.” Then you feel her grin against you. You gulp.

It is the second most sorry you have ever felt in your life, and your apologies are given in the form of your fists clenched backwards on the slats of the backboard and throaty “I’m sorry”s ripping through the air.


	4. Crashing Parties With Machine Guns

You are sitting up in bed. Vriska is a mess beside you, all tangled hair and defensively curled up limbs. You reach out and place a hand on her shoulder. She flinches and then grumbles in an attempt to mask her involuntary reaction. You shake your head and lay against her, hugging her to yourself. “You’re insane,” she says.

You chuckle. “Maybe. But at least I gave you a choice.” You wonder when you are supposed to check out. Vriska never mentioned how long you’d be staying in the city.

“We’re late for checkout,” she says, as if reading your mind. “Surprised they haven’t called or sent anyone up here yet.”

“I think I heard a knock on the door earlier, but you were… incapacitated.” At this, Vriska curses and rises from the bed like a living corpse. You follow suit and gather your things. She puts her pants and undergarments back on (not in that order) and the two of you make your exit.

It’s a bit of a walk from the hotel to where you parked your car, though the streets are clearer than they were yesterday, which is nice. You spend the time talking and looking in shop windows. There’s a lot more to see now that you aren’t walled in by strangers. Vriska’s relative glumness, though, does put a bit of a damper on things, but not much. At least she’s still holding your hand. Well, more like _you’re_ holding _her_ hand, but she’s not trying to escape, so that’s a plus.

It is when you round a corner that your hand suddenly feels like it’s being crushed. “Vriska!” You loosen yourself from her grasp. She doesn’t even notice; she is staring at something in the distance, across the street from you. “What is it?” you ask.

“It’s her.” The words are hoarse in her throat, and her expression is one of concentrated vehemence. You follow her gaze, but you don’t know which civilian is the woman in question.

“Which one?”

“Fur coat.”

You quickly spot her. She has a fur-lined coat and is covered in all sorts of bangles, bracelets, and blandishments. She’s utterly tacky, you think.  You wonder whether she still takes in kids. You certainly hope not.

“Hey! _Hey!_ ” Vriska is suddenly jumping and shouting beside you in an attempt to garner her attention. She starts to charge in the woman’s direction. You grab her and bar her from crossing the street.

“Vriska, no!” Ordinarily you would encourage someone to confront their troubles, but you can see it in her eyes that she’s not just looking to share a few stern words.

She struggles against you, but you are matched in strength. “Let go of me!” A large truck rumbles by. There’s noise and people everywhere. She cranes her neck in a desperate attempt to keep track of her target, but there’s too much going on; evidently she loses sight of the woman, for she pushes away from you and stomps around angrily for a few feet. Then she turns back towards you and you intercept each other. You hold each other by the arms, though for different respective reasons.

“She was right there. She was _right fucking there,_ ” she steams.

“Vriska.” You put a hand on either side of her face and look her in the eyes, but she tries to break free. “ _Look at me._ ” She stops and meets your gaze. “I’m not going to ask you to let it go. But hurting people doesn’t solve anything.” She yanks free of your grasp and scowls, exhaling from her flaring nostrils and shoving her hands in her pockets. “I know what you want to do,” you continue, “but there are other ways.” She rolls her eyes. You shake your head and consider. You’ve got to stop her moping, distract her somehow. But distracting Vriska at a time like this is like trying to catch a charging elephant with a butterfly net. The way you see it, there are only two options through which to derail her current train of thought: by punching her squarely in the face, or…

You sigh. The things you do for amity.

You roughly grab her by the collar and pull her face to your own, pressing your lips hard against hers. She grunts and actually tries to push you away, but then you reach around with one hand and plant it firmly on her behind. Still she holds back, so you manage to force your tongue into her mouth, running it against the back of her teeth. She gives a whine and finally responds appropriately. She kneads her fingers into your hair and pulls you harder into the kiss, or whatever this thing is. You hear catcalls and whistles all around you, but you don’t care. If a video taken by a peeping tom and put on the internet is the price you pay for enjoying the way your girlfriend(?)’s lips move against yours, then so be it. Especially when one of her hands slides down your back and cups your rear; revenge, you suppose, for your own backdoor assault. You have got to do something about this girl’s vendetta complex. But… you can stand to wait a few minutes before starting on that.

But then she tugs on your hair, forcing you to draw back. Her face is flushed and she’s trying to catch her breath (but then, so are you). Then she bares her teeth and says, “Fuck you.” You laugh and say something about there being time for that later, when you have a sufficient amount of rose petals covering your bedroom floor and the sun is setting beyond the science building. She scoffs and says, “Let’s get out of here.”

-x-x-

Your girlfriend is a bit of a handful. Actually, okay, you aren’t sure if you should call her your girlfriend; after returning from Seattle, you attempted to discuss your relationship with her but she only responded with some sort of guttural noise and then shouted “GAAAAAAAAY” or something ridiculous like that (they say that you can still hear echoes of the shout in the hallways when two girls are less than a foot from each other). That was a few weeks ago, though. Now, all of a sudden, she bristles at your touch and barely speaks to you. You would suspect that it was because she doesn’t like you anymore if it wasn’t for the fact that she keeps hanging around you. It’s unnatural, even for Vriska, and you don’t like it.

The withdrawal isn’t all that worries you, though. She’s been acting up. One night you had to fetch her and Terezi from the local police station after they got in a fight over some quarrel involving handcuffs, as you understand it. Another night she called you while drunk and angry about something, but she was too incomprehensible for you to find out what. A few days ago, she punched a student in the stomach right in front of you for no obvious reason. You think you remember hearing the victim say something about trailer trash? You can’t be too sure.

She doesn’t laugh or talk as much, she doesn’t kiss you as much, and you’re pretty sure she’s falling behind in class. Sometimes when she sleeps over, she wakes up screaming like a banshee and curses furiously when you try to calm her. She still doesn’t let you touch her at such times. You’ve tried to talk about it on a few occasions, but she denies everything, taking it as an attack on her personally, like you’re trying to blame her of something. You’re at the end of your rope; you don’t know what to do. So, you pull the emergency cord.

\-- affableGamblignant [AG] started pestering grimAuxiliatrix [GA] at 2:16p. --  
AG: Kanaya, I’m afraid that I need your advice.  
AG: Also, hello. ::::)  
GA: Hello Aranea What Is It  
AG: How familiar are you with Vriska’s various mood swings? From what I understand, you two are very close, despite any complaints she has about your alleged “meddling.” I’m hoping that your experience will help shed some light on this predicament.  
AG: You see, lately she has 8een less and less responsive to me. She’s grumpy and dodgy and pessimistic and everything.  
AG: Furthermore, she has 8een very hostile and has gotten into 8 fights within the past two and a half weeks.  
GA: It Sounds Like Business As Usual To Me  
AG: Yes well this is different. At times, she gives off this sort of veiled hopelessness. Other times, she seems to 8e 8ursting at the seams with unexplaina8le rage and aggression. She is 8eing triggered very easily and, at times, 8y the most a8surd of stimuli.  
AG: And she’s so stu88orn a8out it. Also, she’s 8een having awful nightmares.  
GA: I Cant Recall Ever Detecting Any Hopelessness So That Is A Little Disconcerting  
GA: Though Now That I Think About It I Did Attempt To Speak With Her Once The Other Day And She Did Not Seem To Be Herself  
GA: I Dismissed It As Her Either Not Wishing To Speak With Me Or Her Mood Being More Sour Than It Normally Is  
GA: I Did Not Assume That Something Was Actually Wrong On A Long Term Scale  
GA: However Even Though I Understand Her Probably Better Than Anyone Else You Know Her On A Level That I Have Never And Likely Will Never Know Her  
GA: Nevertheless I Can Tell You With Certainty That The Night Terrors Are Not Unheard Of In Her Case Nor Is The Inexplicable Aggression  
GA: For A Few Months After My Mother Took Her In She Would Have The Absolute Worst Sleeping Patterns Due To The Upsetting Content Of Her Dreams And These Occurred In Tandem With Alarmingly Frequent Misbehavior  
GA: The Fact That This Behavior Has Returned May Be A Sign Of Ruminations Upon An Unpleasant Experience Or Time Period Or Perhaps A Defense Mechanism In The Form Of A Return To Immaturity Or Even Merely Feelings Of Insecurity Or Powerlessness  
AG: She’s right, you have 8een speaking with Rose far too much.  
GA: Sorry  
AG: No, that’s a good thing! I’d rather hear psychological dra88le from someone who knows her well and isn’t snarky and sarcastic all the time.  
GA: You Know I Thought The Same Thing Of Her When We First Spoke But She Actually Is Not That Bad  
GA: Rose I Mean  
AG: I will take your word for it.  
AG: 8ut in the meantime, have you any ideas on how to approach this issue?  
AG: I’ve tried to talk to her, I’ve taken her to her favorite kinds of places around here, I invited some of her friends over once…….. I feel like I’ve tried everything. ::::(  
GA: Hmm Where Is She Presently What Is She Doing  
AG: I’m not sure, actually, pro8a8ly in her room on the internet or something like that.  
AG: Arg, may8e I will just try to talk to her again. Though that never seems to work unless she is the one to start talking to me. ::::/  
AG: I’ll just have to improvise.  
GA: Good Luck With That I Think I May Ask Rose Her Semi Professional Opinion On The Matter If Thats Quite Alright  
GA: For The Record I Am Not Actually Asking Permission I Am Merely Posing The Statement In More Friendly Terms  
AG: It’s okay, Kanaya, you don’t have to explain yourself to me. You’re her sister; you have as much right to investigate her condition as I do, if not more.  
AG: Wish me luck.  
GA: I Dont Think Luck Is A Plausible Factor That Will Assist Or Hinder You In Your Efforts  
AG: Very funny, Kanaya.  
GA: Good Luck  
\-- affableGamblignant [AG] ceased pestering grimAuxiliatrix [GA] at 2:48p. --

It’s started to snow. The path is already slick and you almost slip a few times in your hurry. On the way, you see Rose all wrapped up in a pink scarf and earmuffs. You call to her and ask if she knows whether Vriska is in her room. “Indeed she is, or at least that’s where she was when last I saw her.” You thank her and make your way to her dorm.

Vriska’s door features cute little knit shapes of squids and spiders. Rose’s doing, you assume. You think it’s sweet that she would put spiders for her roommate, even if the purple yarn and eight googly eyes make it look silly. You gently knock on the door eight times. “S’open,” you hear a muffled voice call. And indeed it is.

You find her sitting on the side of her bed, back slouched in a letter C. You go over to Rose’s bed and sit down across from her, mere inches away. “Vriska, what’s wrong?” you ask softly.

“Aranea…” she starts. She glances up at you, then looks away, tightening her lips and looking almost annoyed with herself. She just sort of sits there for a moment with her eyes to the floor. You don’t press her; pestering her never gets you anywhere. Finally she sighs and gulps, and says in a low, somewhat strained voice, “I love you.”

The statement hits you like a sledgehammer. These are not words that ever even occur to Vriska Serket, let alone tumble from her mouth. Hell, she won’t even admit that you’re her girlfriend. But then you get caught up in the excitement of it all: Vriska just told you she loves you for the first time. The fact that she is normally so hesitant in admitting such things makes it even more romantic. You smile and shake your head, hardly believing it all. You take your glasses off and wipe them on your dress to distract yourself from your own fluttering pulse. When you don them you see that she is looking right at you. You give an airy sort of chuckle of disbelief and reply, “I love you too, Vriska.” You lean your forehead against hers and she closes her eyes.

“I need to be alone today,” she says. A dozen red flags shoot up in your head. There’s something very wrong about all this, something unnatural about her behavior. Sure, Vriska Serket is prone to mope, but not like this. It’s bad enough that she just admitted to loving you (you take a moment to mourn the fact that you are calling this confession a bad thing), but telling you that she needs to be alone? Not that she hasn’t told you to buzz off plenty of times before, but there’s a big difference between telling someone to get lost and pleading to be left in peace.

But the way she looks at you with her steady, blue gaze when she opens her eyes consumes you. You can’t say no; you’re hypnotized. You cup a hand to her cheek and brush a thumb over her lips once. You plant a kiss to her forehead as you rise from the bed, silently honoring her request. You want so badly to wrap your arms around her, to bury your face in her neck, to kiss her and make everything normal again, but now is not the time. So you give her a final glance as you exit the room and close the door behind you.

You don’t really know what to do with yourself for the rest of the day. How did you spend your free time before? Oh yeah, reading. Not that you haven’t been reading still, but you’re a lot busier these days. You pick up a favorite of yours and try to delve into it, but you’re having a hard time focusing. You keep reading the same lines over and over. Even though you know the book backwards and forwards, you just can’t absorb it. Trying to write is just as impossible. The sentences come out jointed and broken and the flow is terrible. You give up. There’s nothing for it but to try to get a head start on some schoolwork and then go to bed.

-x-x-

It’s fucking freezing out. The leather gloves you’re wearing don’t do a damn thing. You can see your breath streaming out through the thick snowfall with each exhale. But it doesn’t matter. You aren’t turning back now.

You’re standing in front of a house. It looks like it has seen better days. It is midnight, but all the lights are on. You’re at the end of the walkway that leads to the door. You have a gun in your good hand. An aged revolver with an ivory handle. You’ve been to a shooting range. You’re a pretty good shot. Not a professional, but good enough.

You see a silhouette in the window. It’s familiar. Your blood becomes liquid fury. You’re about to end it all. You’re going to make her pay.

But something is nagging you. Something that what’s-her-face said back downtown. It’s like she’s hanging on your arm, whispering in your ear. I know what you want to do, she says. But there are other ways, she says.

Other ways. You consider. Blood must be repaid with blood; of that much you are sure. But perhaps you can work this so that the scales may be tipped in your favor. This woman’s death won’t make her feel bad. She’ll just be dead. Well, you’re pretty sure nothing would ever make her feel regret, but you can make her life hell. You clench the envelope hidden in your inner jacket pocket. This contains a written testimonial authored by you about what happened. You even signed it in blood. Cliché, but somehow fitting. One of your closest comrades helped you write it after you made her swear not to tell; she’s better than you at this sort of legal nonsense, though you’d never admit it. You don’t know why for sure you brought it with you tonight. Perhaps in case you are caught and arrested, or killed even, assuming your pockets aren’t to be searched by whoever would dispose of your corpse.

You tighten your grip on the gun. If you die out here unannounced, she won’t know who you are. You never saw her again after the incident. She’s probably forgotten you exist. The police will come quickly—you recall that they’re only a couple blocks away, so they may even hear the gunshot cut through the quiet suburban air and be here in just a minute. They will find the statement and conduct an investigation. She will be behind bars. She will lose.

You cock the gun. You know what to do.

-x-x-

You fly up out of unconsciousness, gasping in horror. Before you even know what you’re doing, you sweep your legs out from under the covers, throw on appropriate gear, and sprint out of the building.

You slam your fist on Vriska’s door. No answer. Then you see Rose heading towards you from down the hall. She eyes you questioningly. “Rose,” you pant, “do you know where Vriska is?”

“No, I… can’t say that I do. I’m sorry. Is there a problem?”

“I don’t know. Do you mind if I linger to see if she’s in bed? I don’t need to come in.” _Hopefully_ , you add in your thoughts.

“Well, I can’t exactly have you removed from the hallway.” Then she pauses, considering. “Or can I?” But she unlocks the door and opens it for you anyway. Your stomach drops.

Painted on the wall, in what you can only assume to be blood, are the words “M8KE HER P8Y.”

“Oh, my,” Rose mutters. “How… melodramatic.” You ignore her, pushing past her to examine it more closely, as if you expect it to disappear like a mirage upon approach. But it doesn’t. Then you detect a flicker of light. You find Vriska’s laptop open; the screen saver is on. You touch the track pad to clear it. Cetus is pulled up, showing a page with an address and directions.

-x-x-

You’re speeding as fast as you can without spinning out of control in the slick, snowy streets. There are a few times that you drift and wobble, but you are skilled behind the wheel, so you manage to keep everything under control.

You pull up to the end of the street. You don’t go all the way to the house. It seemed like a good idea at the time. The road is plowed of snow. You run down the center of the lane towards where the address should be. There’s a figure standing on the sidewalk. Their arm is cocked up so that it’s pointing to their head. There’s a pistol in their hand. You scream as you run toward them.

You throw up your arms and knock the gun from her hand. It lands safely in the snow. She reflexively slams the back of one arm into the side of your head and lands a punch squarely on your nose with the other. You knee her in the groin and she buckles, falling into your arms. “Vriska!” you shout. “It’s me!” At first you aren’t sure if she heard you, but then as she manages to support herself, she grabs fistfuls of your shirt (her arms are wrapped around you) and squeezes you tightly. Forehead resting in the crook of your neck, you feel her hot breath blasting down your collar. For a moment you think that the shudders wracking through her body are in despair, until you hear the most enraged, tormented sound you’ve ever heard erupt from her throat as she lets loose a long, earsplitting cry against you. At the end of it her breath comes unevenly and through her teeth. She doesn’t loosen her grip. You comb your fingers through her hair, fingers catching on tangles, and gently whisper _shush_ into her ear, though with your accent in comes out as _shoosh_. You stand there for a good minute, tension crackling and dissipating in the frigid air. Slowly her grip loosens and her nose presses into your collar before her cheek brushes against yours and she looks you directly. You aren’t sure what you read in her eyes, but you think—you _hope_ — it to be something resembling acceptance, or as close to acceptance as Vriska Serket can get. Then you feel something press gently into your ribcage. You look down to see an envelope. You take it in your hands. You open the document; it isn’t sealed yet. It’s hard to tell in the darkness, but you think you make out something about kids and shouting and handcuffs. You look up to see that she was studying your reaction. She wipes a thumb across your upper lip and examines the blood that now covers it; your nose is broken. She absently puts it to her mouth and cleans the red off, and you’re not sure who starts it, but you begin to kiss, and then you keep kissing, and you aren’t worried anymore, you can’t feel the bitter chill nipping at your ears, you just feel her chapped lips and taste the rust on her tongue and smell the old cigarettes on her breath.

It stops eventually. You stand there for a moment. Then she smiles. “Fucking meddler.” You laugh, relieved, and brush her hair behind her ear.

“I’m sorry, I’ll ask for permission before saving your life next time.” Your fingertips graze the surface of her face and you brush a thumb over her cheekbone. “As long as you promise not to break my nose again. It is one of my stronger features.” She smirks. You feel your face throb for the first time.

She takes a step back and puts her hands in her jacket pockets. Condensation puffs from her nostrils like smoke. “Let’s blow this crack joint,” she says. You roll your eyes. So cliché.

You are starting to lead the way back to the car when you hear a door open behind you. You turn to see the silhouette of a woman standing in the entryway of her home. “Hey!” she shouts. “Get off my lawn, you fucking _faggots_!”

Vriska turns slowly. Your chest clenches in apprehension. She stares back at the woman for a good eight seconds. Then her arm slowly rises into the air and a long middle finger extends to its fullest. “Suck my dick, bitch!”

And then you go home and fuck.

God, you love your girlfriend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TH'END, hope you enjoyed this silly attempt to make Spidernerds your new crackship OTP.


End file.
